


Two Extra

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: Domestic By-Products [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Domestic, M/M, just a bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos embraces the extra extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Extra

Carlos tripped fingers down Cecil’s subtly incorrect spine. The fine knobs of bone seated just under soft dusky skin looked right, felt right. Yet where there should be thirty-three, there were thirty-five. The two extra, as far as Carlos could tell, were quite comfortably jammed in around the lumbar curve. He rubbed the muscle around them, rewarded by a soft hum of contentment from Cecil. Wherever the extra vertebra had come from, they didn't seem to bother Cecil in the least. 

It hadn't occurred to Carlos to count them at all until yesterday. He had been out taking readings of the ineffable fog that had rolled into Night Vale Elementary and begun reading fairy tales to children in the original German. As he adjusted dials and tried to break the thrall, he’d spotted Cecil walking past. He called out to him, so quickly it seemed almost involuntarily. 

“Cecil!” 

“Carlos?” Cecil had turned....and turned. The angle looked painful. Improbable. 

“What brings you this way?” Carlos had filed the image away and jogged across the street to meet up with him. 

They’d gone to lunch together, sitting across from each other at one of the dozens of Applebee’s, their knees brushing together and Cecil’s glasses tripping down his nose as he tried to explain the vagaries of sporks as protective talismans. Cecil had terribly long fingers that cut through the air at odd angles. His slick dark hair had already begun to escape the ponytail holder he put in so hopefully each morning, undulating locks caressing his high cheekbones and pointed chin. 

“I should really do a PSA on it this afternoon, if the management will allow me to make a change in schedule.” Cecil was saying, eyes wide and earnest. “Don’t you think?” 

“I think, “Carlos smiled helplessly at him, “that I might be in love with you.” 

“Oh.” Cecil blinked rapidly, a little moistly. “I-” 

An ominous rumble shook their table. 

“Also, I think I have to go prevent that ineffable fog from taking away all the children. Again.” 

“Oh.” Cecil said again, his cheeks flushed. “Of course. Um.” 

“You should do the PSA. Then you should come over to my place. I’ll make dinner.” 

“Oh.” 

“Say eight?” Carlos pushed himself out of the suspiciously deep and sodden booth to lean down and brushed a kiss over Cecil’s dumbstruck lips. 

It was probably for the best that chasing after the fog kept Carlos from hearing that night’s broadcast. He had a feeling that Cecil would be rhapsodizing and self-loathing by turns, interspersed with sporks and coverage of the ineffable fog. Though Carlos had been looking forward to the weather. Cecil had been fairly confident that it looked like electric guitars when he woke up this morning and he was generally right about those sorts of things. 

After a thorough decontamination to wipe away the oily acidic tears of Night Vale’s children, Carlos made steak and potatoes for dinner. He kept Cecil’s relatively rare on a hunch. When the doorbell screamed, he was still mashing the potatoes. 

“It’s open!” He called out, then listened to the uneven thunk of footsteps. Cecil never limped, but he never quite walked straight either. 

A warm arm slid tentatively around Carlos’ waist, soft lips found the juncture of neck and shoulder where they kissed once, reverently. One clever strand of Cecil’s hair clung to Carlos’ cheek in needy affection. 

“Garlic smashed potatoes.” He explained, leaning back against the uncertain line of Cecil’s body. “I can’t cook very much.” 

“I don’t cook at all.” Cecil admitted, his lovely velvet voice intimate and low. “If Rico’s went out of buisness, I would starve.” 

“Good thing then that they’re mandated to stay open.” He closed his eyes and took in the crisp apple/ammonia/o-zone smell of Cecil’s skin. “I hope you don’t mind eating at the lab table. I never got around to buying one for the kitchen.” 

“It’s fine.” Cecil laughed. “You should see my place. Total bachelor pad wreck.” 

“I’m sure you have a better decorative theme then beakers.” 

In fact, the whole apartment was more lab than living space. It was the way Carlos had always liked it. In some ways, coming to Night Vale had let him be more himself. No one here cared if he didn’t own a television or stayed up to all hours doing experiments that resulted in localized thunderstorms and maniacal laughter. Outside, he had been labeled peculiar and undesirable, a recluse and a bit mad. Inside Night Vale’s shadowy embrace, he was still peculiar, still odd, but the citizens seemed to like what made him other. His strangeness here was revered instead of reviled. 

“I like what you’ve done to the walls.” Cecil declared, cutting into the steak. 

“I ran out of whiteboards. Is there a reason no one sells them?” 

“There was an incident.” Cecil shrugged. “I don’t remember the details. No one does.” 

“Of course they don’t. Well, the walls work just as well. I repaint them every few weeks and start over.” 

“You know that writing utensils-” 

“It’s not pen or a marker or anything.” Everyone figured out a way around the restrictions. It had taken Carlos a long time to figure that out, but you simply could not live in a world without all the things the Council had banned. Night Vale had a thriving black market and a remarkable way of spreading ingenious ideas without alerting the hundreds of listening ears. “I paint on a new color then scratch away specific chips of it in a random pattern.” 

“Do you?” Cecil smiled. "I see.” 

“Is everything alright? The food, I mean.” 

“The steak is good.” Cecil looked a little dubiously at the potatoes. “I’m not sure how I feel about the potatoes. Are they meant to be so...white?”

“I drove a few towns over to get them.” He admitted. “It was a favorite of mine growing up, but the local ones have a different flavor.” 

“It’s the soil.” Cecil said knowledgeably. “We did a report on it a few years back. Nitrogen rich and full of Dread Beetles. Good for the pancreas.” 

The nature of Dread Beetles took up most of the rest of their evening conversation. This late in the day, Cecil’s hair rebelled entirely and the black elastic band snapped spectacularly before falling useless and limp to the floor. Cecil didn’t notice, intent on explaining the burrowing habits of the beetles into living flesh. Carlos only swept the band under the table with his foot. 

“Thank you for dinner.” Cecil said when the bell tower peeled out two rings then came to a gasping stop. Generally that meant the sun had given up it’s tenuous relationship with the Night Vale sky and departed for more sunshine friendly climes. “I should-” 

“Stay.” Carlos reached out, touched Cecil’s wrist with two fingers, a rapid pulse undulating beneath. “Can you?” 

“Yes.” Cecil turned his palm upward. 

It wasn't the first time they’d had sex, but it was the first time that Carlos could clearly recall. The first time had been under a staircase with death breathing down their necks in the form of a mutated intern and the other....lost. Carlos was only sure they’d done anything because he’d come to with a very specifically shaped hickey on his hip and Cecil had been unable to meet his eyes for a week afterwards. 

This time there was no more threat of death than on a usual Tuesday night and whatever static had eliminated their last tryst had moved on. Unrushed and free of first time jitters, they pieced it together less awkwardly. Having a bed helped. Well, it was more like a mattress on a floor because Carlos hadn't gotten around to buying a bed either, but Cecil didn't seem to mind. 

“I like that.” Cecil sighed as Carlos nipped at his stomach, fingers splayed over the bold points of Cecil’s hips. 

“You like everything.” Carlos chuckled into a small, very normal, belly button. 

“I like you.” Cecil tangled a hand into his hair. “Perfect, beautiful Carlos...” 

“Gorgeous, extraordinary Cecil.” He dipped his head further down. 

The sounds Cecil made were like bird trills, high and whistling and multi-tonal. Each one rose, crisp and sweet into the dark of the room, building one upon the other, until he came in a rich full chord. Carlos thought it might be C minor. 

“Sorry.” Cecil flushed, accepting a kiss as Carlos crawled back up his body. 

“What for?” Carlos wrapped a hand around his neck. Cecil’s hair wrapped around his hand. 

“Making a ruckus. We’ll have woken the neighbors.” 

“They’re dead, I think or missing.” Carlos kissed the tip of Cecil’s nose, his eyelids. “I like your noises.” 

With surprising strength, Cecil flipped them and came to rest straddling Carlos’ hips. A shred of light peered through the curtains, catching at one side of Cecil’s face, lighting it with shadows. 

“Did you meant what you said at lunch?” Cecil reached out, resting his palm over the rapid beat of Carlos’ heart. 

“Yes.” He joined their fingers together. 

“I think I've been waiting my whole life to love you.” Cecil said and maybe he was blushing, certainly his voice cracked. 

“Oh.” It was Carlos’ turn to say. 

After that, the sex was nearly beside the point. Nearly. Cecil’s rocking hips, frenzied hair and tight heat held their own intoxication. Neither of them had much experience, but they had passion and enthusiasm on their side. Carlos decided not to ask about the lubricant that spilled violet over Cecil’s fingers and smelled faintly of roses. It worked and kept them in a slick symphony of movement which was all that mattered.

It wasn't until they spilled across the dirty sheets, sweating and exhausted, that Cecil asked quietly, 

“Can I stay? I should warn you, I've been told I’m a nightmare-” 

“As long as you want.” Carlos interrupted. “I don’t sleep much anyway.” 

Maybe other people couldn't bare the slightly sticky cling of Cecil’s long fingers or the restless shifts of his hair. Maybe their complaints were of his whistling snore, issued not from lips or nose or any one location that Carlos could discover, but rather a full bodied vibration. Maybe it was something else, that slight edge of discomfort that all Night Vale citizens seemed to project, raising hairs on the necks of the ordinary. 

Carlos observed all of this, then fell into a deep sleep. The sun’s resolute return stirred him hours later. Cecil had rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night, the blankets shoved down to his waist. Gently, Carlos touched the arch of his spine and began counting. 

“Good morning.” Cecil yawned. “Did I wake you?” 

“No.” He leaned in and kissed Cecil’s shoulder. “Sleep alright?” 

“I dreamed of a vast ocean, fathomless and the color of bruises.” Cecil murmured, hypnotic even with morning breath and grit in his eyes. “I swam to the bottom and sat in silted sand that shifted beneath me. Fish danced through my fingers and I could swear they whispered the secrets of the universe.” 

“What were they?” 

“Hm?” Cecil blinked dozily. 

“The secrets, love. What were they?” 

“No idea, they spoke in Old Atlantis, I only know Middle Atlantis. Call me that again.” 

Cecil rubbed around Cecil’s extra vertebra. In the morning light, the skin around them shone a little. 

“Should I?” He grinned. “Why? Do you like it?” 

“Ugh.” Cecil dropped his face into his arms. “You’re going to torture me, aren't you?” 

“A little.” Carlos leaned closer, splaying his hand over the small of Cecil’s back. Supple soft skin rippled under him. “You’re adorable when you get like that.” 

“I am not adorable. I’m a grown man.” Cecil huffed, but he didn’t pick his head back up. 

The trembling sheen grew darker as if Cecil’s blush had migrated from cheeks to back in the extremity of mortification. Only it wasn't blood sending color down the length of Cecil’s spine. Tiny scales shimmered there in uneven patches. As Carlos watched they went purple and then faded back to masquerade as skin once more. 

“You’re something grown.” Carlos agreed and driven by sheer curiosity (and no little bit of lust), kissed the scales inquisitively. They felt no different beneath his lips, tasted as salty and sweet as the rest of him. 

“Carlos...” Cecil began then sighed, thought apparently completed. 

“Do you have to be anywhere this morning?” 

“No.” Cecil said firmly. “Well. Yes. But I’d rather be here. I can stay for awhile.” 

“Did you know that the average human spine has thirty-three vertebra?” Carlos slung himself over Cecil’s back, running his fingers from the nape of his neck to the swell of his rather magnificent ass. “Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacral, coccyx. The bottom nine, sacrum and coccyx, are fused. The others move.” 

“Do they?” Cecil wiggled a little beneath him. “Fascinating.” 

“The lumbar give us much of our flexibility. Side to side motion, particularly.” The scales lit up purple, warmer to the touch. “I hope you won’t be disappointed. I’m only ordinary there.” 

“Why would I be disappointed?” Cecil twisted. And twisted. He smiled and reached to drag Carlos down to him. 

“Never mind.” Carlos framed Cecil’s face in his hands. “Suppose I’m just rambling.” 

“I’m listening.” Cecil said sincerely. “You’d be surprised how good you get at listening being on the radio. Can’t all be talk.” 

“Let’s stop then. For now.” 

After that, it all seemed rather inevitable. 

Cecil came over more and more until they decided that he might as well move in, bringing with him boxes that ticked and tremored, yet only contained a collection of porcelain cats. His clothes came in a rucksack over one shoulder, patches from ancient trips crumbling to dust as he set it gingerly down. Carlos built rickety shelves for the cats and threw out ten lab coats to make room for a dozen bright tunics. 

Eventually, they saved up and bought a little house in one of the more recently abandoned parts of town. There was a hooded figure that walked by at six every morning with a cup of coffee clenched in one robed fist. It was trailed by a long black sedan. Carlos waved from the porch with his own cup of coffee. The figure never waved back. The men in the sedan always did. 

Around eight, Cecil would wake up and groan his annoyance at the new day until after his shower and coffee. They’d eat breakfast together at a real kitchen table, their knees interlaced. They had every morning together and they spent it productively or in bed. Sometimes both. Work separated them, then brought them back together more often than not. Carlos now knew all the best places to cower from Station Management and Cecil became adept at using the cranky seismograph. 

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?” Cecil asked in the darkness. He was forever posing questions when Carlos was right on the verge of sleep. Intentionally, he once explained. He hoped that Carlos will dream the answers. But Carlos rarely dreamed anymore, except for library visits and the occasional disturbing omen. 

“Like what?” Carlos asks in return, tucking one of Cecil’s long legs between his own. 

“Fitting together like the last two pieces in an otherwise lost and scattered puzzle?” 

Cecil had thirty-five vertebra, his hair never stayed where it was meant to, his scales tinged purple when he’s embarrassed and there was a strong possibility that his throat has an entirely inhuman construction that allows him to orgasm like the crescendo of a ballad. He called Carlos perfect on the radio, in the same breath that described a massacre the moment before. These days, Carlos will call in, interrupting his litany of compliments to say, 

“Shush now, Cecil. My gorgeous, extraordinary Cecil.” Then he’ll clear his throat and remind Cecil to pick up tomatoes and mosquito netting on the way home. 

Carlos turned Cecil’s question over and over until Cecil began to snore. In the morning, Carlos woke up and took his cup of coffee outside. He waved at the hooded figure and the black sedan. The men in the black sedan waved back. Down the street, a cluster of dogs began to bark. He turned on the electric fence just in case. 

“Ugh.” Cecil appeared on the porch, pajama pants drooping down his hips. “Sun.” 

“Come here.” Carlos held out his arm and Cecil slotted ever so perfectly against him. “I dreamed your answer.” 

“Did you?” 

“We’ll die. Probably sooner rather than later. And I don’t believe in any kind of afterlife, so there’s that.” Carlos touched Cecil’s scales. “But until then... we're puzzle pieces. Not lost though. Extra. Those two plain pieces shuffled in by accident.” 

“Oh, good.” Cecil melted into him, relief written on every oddly curved line of his gorgeous, extraordinary body. “I thought so, but I wanted to be sure.” 

They listened to the dogs edge closer and closer. The hooded figure stopped walking. In the distance, a shot rang out and everything smelled ominously of cake batter. There would be news to report and crises to avert at the last moment all too soon. For now, Carlos sipped his coffee, Cecil’s hair ticking over his neck and embraced the gorgeous extraordinary ordinary day.


End file.
